


The Five Fights of Frank Doyle, Supernatural Bare Knuckle Brawler

by lalalalalawhy



Category: The Thrilling Adventure Hour
Genre: 5 Things, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Illustrated, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalalalawhy/pseuds/lalalalalawhy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/><strong>FIGHT TONIGHT:</strong><br/>***<br/>THE WOLFMAN!<br/><i>Undefeated </i><br/>VS.<br/>THE CATHOLIC KID<br/><i>Fighting for His Life! </i><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“Sir!”

Two men, unseemly fellows both, cut into Frank Doyle’s line of vision. He had intended to make a beeline from the auction house couch (which even now held Frank’s favorite canine companion) to the bar and back again, but the sudden presence of these two impeded his path tremendously. Their demeanor made Frank want to adjust his cuffs and straighten his tie. “Here, we need an outside opinion on this.”

“Who do you think would win in a fight?” the greasier of the two asked. “Swamp Thing or the Creature from the Black Lagoon?”

Frank stiffened. He turned to face the men, shoulders held ramrod straight. His right hand had drawn up into a fist without his command. He stared at the two men without really seeing them slowly running his fingertips over his knuckles, his eyes focused on a long-ago boxing ring only he could see. His ears rang with the cheers of unwholesome spectators he hadn’t heard for years and yet were always right on the edge of hearing.

His thumb scraped over his first and second knuckle, lingering over the scar tissue there. The muscles in his shoulders and back had tightened and were twanging, ready for action. Frank focused again on the two slimy fellows, and adjusted his stance. His fingers tightened into a real fist this time. After all, they were standing between Frank and the bar. Punching them would be so satisfying. He took a deep breath.

“Wait, hold on,” Frank said. “Let me see if I understand this correctly. You interrupted my trip to the bar to ask me who would win a bare-knuckle, no-holds-barred brawl between two supernatural amphibians?”

The greasy men nodded eagerly.

They truly had no idea, Frank realized, what fools they were being. Ugly, beautiful, ignorant fools. They had no idea about the different and dangerous world in which they were meddling.

Well, they wouldn’t, Frank realized. The first rule of supernatural bare-knuckle brawling? You do not let others in on the secret if they do not need to know.

Frank’s knuckles knew. They wouldn’t stop itching.


	2. The Catholic Kid vs. The Wolfman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Suggested listening for this chapter.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYwcSIBdOik)

A young Frank Doyle hoisted his clanking sack over his shoulder and very carefully did not slam the shabby door of the shabby church behind him. It wasn't that he didn't want to slam the door - he did, so much - but he knew that if he drew attention to his departure, Father Lancaster or Sister Mary might object. He also knew that he was leaving, no matter what. No matter who got in his way. 

He was angry - livid even. But he didn't want to have their blood on his hands as well. 

So Frank Doyle left the church as quietly as possible and began to stalk away, each furious step an indictment of barely-organized religion. 

Frank did not look back. Nothing remained for him there.

If he walked quickly enough, he thought, he would be able to make it to Midtown by morning. He knew of a shady dealer there who might be interested in the items clattering in his sack - interested enough, perhaps, to be worth a month’s rent in a hostel just the other side of squalid, and maybe, just maybe, a new set of clothes.

He wouldn't sell everything from his sack, though. Not for any sentimental reasons, no. Rather, Frank knew far too well that sometimes your personal demons come back to haunt you. He planned to be prepared.

* * *

The bell on the shop's front door gave a little tinkle as Frank stalked through. First light had hardly broken, but he had been walking all night and was eager to lighten his load. The proprietor held up a hand without looking up, though whether it was a gesture of greeting or annoyance at the interruption, Frank couldn't tell.

The man was old, elderly. His knobby hands held an old fashioned pen, and he scratched away at a book full of sums. Frank shifted from foot to foot, waiting to be acknowledged.

Finally the old man drew his pen across the paper with finality and looked up. He looked Frank Doyle up and down, from his muddied boots to his unruly curls. Frank's only set of clothes came from church donations, and had been worn by no fewer than three men before him. His pants sagged, held up by a length of cord. His shirt was still blood-stained from his last assignment from Father Lancaster, and his jacket was missing all but one button. His lapels were frayed, his facial hair out of order.

In short, Frank looked terrible. And he knew it. But he held the old man's gaze, and tried to appear unashamed.

"Well," the old man said, pushing his wide-brimmed hat back from his head and stroking his beard pensively. "We don't often get your kind in here. I doubt you're here to buy diamonds. Are you here to sell me something?"

"Yes," Frank said, simply. And set his sack down on the floor.

"And you think the items in that sack would interest me?"

Frank fought the rage that reared within him, unbidden. His eyes flashed, though, and the old man nodded.

"Well, my boy. You had better show me what you've brought."

Frank began unloading his bag. First a pair of ornate silver candlesticks, pilfered from the altar. A crucifix emblazoned with symbols and inset with jewels. And a simple dagger with no adornment.

The man looked over the items before him. He picked up a candlestick, nodding. "Silver," he said, "good weight. But no more special than your average table setting."

Frank fought to keep his expression neutral. He didn't tell the man that he had used those candlesticks to bludgeon a hell beast to unconsciousness just last month.

The old man picked up the jewel-encrusted crucifix. He hummed to himself, and brought out his loupe.

"Italian," he said, "Catholic, obviously. Probably last century. It's not often you see a Christ figure bleeding rubies."

He rubbed his thumb over the figure. "The quality is very poor. I'm afraid I cannot offer much for it."

Frank could feel his chest tighten and his jaw clench.

The old man waved at the dagger and shook his head. "I do not deal in weapons."

Frank swallowed. "That's not what I heard," he said, his voice low. He reached for the dagger and drew it from its sheath. The old man met his gaze evenly, clearly not afraid. A fresh ray of sun suddenly shone through the front window and caught the blade, throwing the newly revealed intricate carving into relief.

The old man's eyes widened momentarily and he sat back in his chair, examining Frank Doyle anew.

"Aha," he said. "This isn't exactly your diocese, friend. What is a demon hunter like you doing so far out of your jurisdiction?"

Frank stayed silent and glared at the man and slid the dagger back into its sheath

"I thought you had merely robbed a church and didn't realize how much trouble you were in," the old man said. He tapped his temple. "I think now that you know exactly how much trouble you are in."

Frank nodded once.

"Oy," the man said. "Well, you have chutzpah, I'll give you that."

The man ran his hands over the items on the counter again. "I can't buy any of these," he said. "I can't risk the wrath of the Church again."

Frank felt like he had been punched in the gut. His mind began to race. Where else could he go? Could he hop a train? How long until they caught up to him?

"There may be someone who can help you, though. He's my nephew. A good man, if a bit of a schmuck, if you don't mind me saying."

The man held out a card. On it was written **Red Wolf Mendels, Fixer**.

"Come back at sunset," the old man said. "He'll be expecting you."

* * *

As Frank strode through the Diamond District for the second time that day, he felt a little less shabby. Over the course of the day he’d found the library, which had afforded him a place to comb his hair, shave his face, and get most of the dust off his clothes. There was nothing to be done about most of his outfit, but he had been able to abscond with a thin, high-quality leather belt from a large department store. (He’d left one of the candlesticks by way of payment: he may be many things, but common thief wasn’t one of them.)

Stopping outside the door, he straightened his cuffs and brushed his lapels, squared his shoulders, and entered the store.

The man he could only assume to be Red Wolf Mendels sat beside the front counter. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and well-muscled.

“Uncle Ber told me about you,” the younger Mendels said, looking Frank up and down and hiding a condescending smile. “A demon-fighter, he said. Well, you don’t look like you’re worth a grain of salt to me.”

Frank glared at him, saying nothing.

“Uncle Ber also said you might be in need of some fast cash. I might have a gig for you.”

Frank still said nothing, and tried not to indicate just how desperately he was listening.

“I’m in need of a fighter dumb enough to go toe-to-toe with the Wolfman. Do you think you could do that?”

“Listen, Mr. Mendels,” Frank said, “I will fight and kill any creature. But I won’t do it without a reason.”

He didn’t add, it’s all I know how to do.

“You need them to deserve what’s coming?” Mendels said, eyebrows raised.

“I spent too long as a blunt weapon,” Frank said. “I’m finished punching demons just because the Church tells me to. If you tell me this Wolfman has it coming, I’ll consider it. And I don’t do it for free anymore.”

“Well, last week he tore the right arm clear off Larry, the Swamp Thing,” Mendels said. “Is that good enough for you?”

“Oh, probably. Did Larry survive?”

“Barely.”

Frank rolled his eyes. Of course. If he had learned one thing in this life, though, it’s that nothing is ever easy.

“What’s the payout?”

“For a green kid like you? Odds will be steep. If you can beat him, you could be looking at quite the collection plate.” Mendels smiled at his own joke.

Frank attempted to roll his eyes and glare at the same time. He couldn’t help but feel like it would work better if he had a drink in his hand. “I get it, because I’m Catholic, right? Joke’s on you. As of last night, I’m officially lapsed.”

“Got it,” Mendels said. “If you don’t mind, though, we’ll keep it for the posters. Marketing, you know.”

“Fine,” Frank’s headache was getting worse. He was so tired.

Mendels appeared to consider Frank carefully. He nodded to himself, and wrote an address down on a sheet of paper. He slid it across the counter to Frank. “Be there at 10pm tonight, kid,” he said. Frank nodded.

“These bouts aren’t technically to the death, just so you know. You don’t have to kill the Wolfman. But that doesn’t mean he won’t try to kill you. The Wolfman has a tendency to forget that when the bell rings.”

* * *

At 9:30, Frank found the address down the third alley he tried. There was very little other than a gray door made out of heavy steel. Frank knocked. A panel slid to the right, revealing a beady pair of eyes glaring out at him. “Password?”

“I don’t know a password!” Frank said, exasperated. “I was told to come here by Red Wolf Mendels. I am here to fight the Wolfman? Is this ringing any bells?”

“You the Catholic Kid?” the man grunted.

“Not anymore,” Frank muttered.

“Huh?”

“What? I’m here,” Frank enunciated, “to fight,” he mimed punching, “the Wolfman.”

“Are you,” the man said, enunciating, “the Catholic Kid?” He slid a large piece of paper out the slot. It was a poster that proclaimed, in four-inch-tall letters,

_**FIGHT TONIGHT:** _

***

**THE WOLFMAN!**

_Undefeated_

VS.

**THE CATHOLIC KID**

_Fighting for His Life!_

The poster included a decent likeness of Frank, except that some amateur artist had added a charcoal mustache as a taunt. It actually didn’t look half bad, Frank thought.

“Oh, yes. That would be me: a Catholic Kid, I suppose. If we’re being reductive.”

The door swung open.

Inside was a makeshift boxing ring: little more than a chalk outline on a concrete floor with some chairs around the perimeter. Everything smelled like sweat, blood, and tangy ectoplasm, like the brick walls were saturated with it. Frank’s nose wrinkled.

Mendels was sitting in the back of the room with a towel hanging around his shoulders.

“Good, you’re here,” he said. Frank glared up at him. “Do you know how to wrap your hands?” Frank nodded, and Mendels handed him some gauze and tape. Frank took off his poor jacket and began on his hands.

“Say, Red Wolf. This Wolfman doesn’t happen to be you, does it?” Mendels looked up at him in surprise. “Your name is Red Wolf, after all.”

“No,” Mendels said.

“Wonderful.” Frank sighed. “I’ve had enough of dramatic irony lately.”

“Here,” Mendels handed Frank a flask. “Liquid courage.”

Frank wasn’t afraid, not really, but he took a swig anyway. Everything seemed to come into focus. A bell rang, and a beast entered the ring.

The Wolfman was seven feet tall if he was an inch. Random tufts of fur stuck out from his bare chest and shoulders as he leered at Frank. Frank took a final swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. He brought his fists up to his face and focused on the beast.

“New kid, huh?” the Wolfman sneered. “Some sniveling local babyface you are!”

“I may have a baby face but I have at least combed my hair,” Frank said, warily circling the creature.

“They tell you what happened to the last guy who thought he could fight me?” the Wolfman asked as he swung a left hook at Frank’s jaw.

Frank dodged and didn’t answer, instead fixing his gaze on the creature’s right hand. When the jab came, Frank was ready, ducking and jabbing with his own fist. Frank connected, and the Wolfman whuffed out a breath.

“Cute,” the Wolfman said, and reached in, lightning fast, to grab Frank by the shirt. The Wolfman hauled frank up to eye level.

“Listen,” he said, “I eat boys like you for breakfast. I am the undefeated champ. If you’re smart, you’ll lie down and stop bothering me.” The creature’s breath smelled like week-old beef as he leaned his face even closer to Frank’s. “I promise not to hurt you… too bad,” he said, and chuckled at his own joke.

Frank’s much-maligned shirt ripped at both side seams, and the beast lost his grip. Frank dropped to the ground and connected with a quick one-two punch right as bell rang, signifying the end of round one.

Frank retreated to his corner and angrily pulled off his tattered shirt. Mendels picked it up off the floor and offered him the flask again.

“Good one, kid!” he said. “I’ve never seen anyone get a punch in on the Wolfman, let alone multiple!”

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen his type before,” Frank said. “Trumped up fighters skating by on reputation alone. Half of demonkind is the same way.” Mendels raised his eyebrows, impressed. He didn’t comment on the scars criss-crossing Frank’s torso and scored into his back, but it became clear that this kid was more than worth his salt.

Rounds two and three began and ended in a flurry of punches, with both Frank and the Wolfman getting a few good hits in. By the time round four ended both fighters were worse for the wear and beginning to tire.

Round five began with the Wolfman getting in three solid hits: right-left-right. Frank looked up at him, bruises already beginning to bloom. The Wolfman was laughing, but Frank was no stranger to being the butt of a joke. No, this was the laughter of a creature who had never lost, who had never paid any price. The Wolfman was already counting his winnings, but he was making sure he took the time to taunt his opponent. The only thing Frank hated worse than being a sore loser was losing to a sore winner. Frank narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists.

Later, everyone who was anyone in the underground supernatural boxing community would claim to have been there the night the Catholic Kid knocked the Wolfman soundly unconscious in the fifth. No two people would agree on just how he did it, though, which made it easier to believe that everyone really had been there. The only thing they could agree on was that the kid fought like a man possessed, a man who had nothing to lose.

It was true: Frank had nothing to lose. He had lost even the shirt off his back. And so Frank fought with everything he had.

And he won.

He didn’t like winning. But he hated losing more.

* * *

In the aftermath of the battle, Mendels counted out a dozen bills into his palm. It was more money than Frank had ever had in his entire life, and he was tired enough that it seemed unreal. He blinked at it and tried to keep track of Mendels's counting. It was enough to rent a modest room, and maybe even get a new shirt and trousers on top of that.

“Hey man! You were great in there!” An oozing creature had made its way over to congratulate Frank. “The name’s Larry. I fought the Wolfman last week. I did not do nearly as well as you did.”

Frank was so exhausted he could barely see straight. He nodded and clapped Larry on the shoulder. Then, with a confused expression on his face, he clapped Larry’s other shoulder. He turned to Mendels, scowling.

“Red Wolf, you told me Larry had his arm pulled clean off!”

“He did. I didn’t say it stayed that way,” Mendels said. “Swamp Things have some pretty amazing powers of regeneration.”

Frank grabbed the flask out of Mendels’s hand, glaring, and drained it. It only made him feel slightly better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically a 5 things fic that got a little out of hand. Next chapter of Frangst set to go up next Monday. 
> 
> Big thanks to [secretsofluftnarp (luftie)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/luftie/pseuds/secretsofluftnarp), who served not only as inspiration partner and all-around bud, but also amazing beta.


	3. The Catholic Crusader vs. The Hell Beast

The first thing Frank Doyle bought with his winnings was a new shirt. 

Once he was properly dressed, the second thing Frank Doyle bought with his winnings was three month’s rent at a small apartment near Mendels owned by a guy who knew a guy. It was small and dingy and it smelled bad, but he had a roof over his head. Moreover, for the first time in a long time, Frank had a room to call his own and officially owed nothing to any higher power, either metaphorical or practical. It was practically Heaven.

Frank mentally revised his terminology to remove the proper noun. His new apartment, as grungy as it was, was practically an earthly delight.

The third thing Frank Doyle bought with his winnings was a small bottle of quality whiskey and a rocks glass.

This brought his possessions, _in toto_ , to a full set of clothing (pants and jacket, old, belt and shirt, new), a comb, a bottle of whiskey, a rocks glass, a poster from his first fight (which had been folded in quarters and smoothed out), and the previously-purloined bag that contained a silver candlestick, a bejeweled crucifix, and a dagger of unknown origins and unknowable power. Plus a small sum of money left over for necessities.

Frank felt rich. It was a nice feeling.

* * *

Frank’s apartment, small as it was, was safe. A Mendels cousin, son of Uncle Ber, owned the building and acted as super. The bathroom down the hall was often damp but never dirty. For the first time since he came south, Frank had somewhere to call home.

He and Mendels the younger had become fast colleagues, which is to say, drinking buddies. Over the course of their many evenings together, Frank learned that Red Wolf was a second generation rabbi and a fifth generation shaman. He was respected in the community both for his generous spirit and wisdom as well as his impeccable skill with signature weapon -- a baseball bat carved with American Indian symbols.

One night, over a bottle of whiskey of high enough quality that it did not technically count as firewater, Mendels turned the conversation to the past. “Say,” he asked Frank, casually. “What brought you to the Church in the first place?”

Frank’s glass froze on its way to his lips, pausing just long enough for Mendels to take notice. Frank silently cursed his hand. He took a deep breath.

“Pretty good place to land, all things told. Fed me and kept me, so long as I earned my keep exorcising. They trained me up well enough.” Frank took another swig of whiskey. “Now, enough about me. The real character we should be examining is you. Red Wolf Mendels, now there’s a name with a story behind it! How did you come to have Mendels as a last name?”

“How do you mean?”

“I was always under the impression that Judaism operates more or less matrilineally. Is that true?”

“Well sure it is,” Mendels said.

“Then how did you slip through the cracks?”

“There’s nothing more Jewish than having your homeland stolen out from under you, Frank,” Red Wolf said. “Plus, nobody talks back to the Rabbi and comes out ahead. If he lived in a different age he would have parted the Red Sea out of stubbornness alone. When Rabbi chose a Mohawk bride, well, the wedding party had yarmulkes and mohawks in pretty much equal measure.”

“Fair enough,” Frank said. Red Wolf took a sip, and Frank pressed forward. Anything to keep the conversation away from matters of the past. Well, his past anyway.

“I know this city takes in all comers, but I can’t say as I’ve met any other Mohawks out here. How did your mother and father meet?”

“Well, how do you think all these skyscrapers get built, Frank?”

“I don’t suppose it’s the work of a giant gorilla looking to repay his debt to society?”

“What? No. The skyscrapers and bridges -- the bones of this city -- were built by ironworkers. And everyone knows that the best ironworkers in all the land are the Mohawk.”

“Is that so?”

“Sure. See, there’s a rumor goes around saying Mohawks aren’t afraid of heights." Mendels leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees, letting the bottle hang loose in his hand. "You know better than most how people love that _woo-woo mystical_ crap, right?”

Frank nodded. He knew, alright.

“Well, it’s not that Mohawks aren’t afraid of heights. But we actually train the guys who go on up there, right? Nobody climbs green. And we all know each other. It’s more like a family. Plus,” he said, leaning back in his chair, "if the white man thinks it's mystical Indian juju, we get more work."

“Have you ever built one of these towering giants of industry, Red Wolf?”

“Nah, you know me. I’m not cut out for construction. But I’m the guy you call for the second that woo-woo juju crap comes to bear. I'm a second-generation Rabbi on my dad's side and a Medicine Man going back at least five generations on my ma's.”

Mendels paused while Frank was mid-sip and looked like he was about to ask another question. Frank jumped in before he could.

“Tell me more about your bat.” The bat was a nearly constant companion to Mendels, equal parts accessory and threat. It was only recognizable as a bat by the shape, as it had been covered in intricate carvings from handle to tip, leaving only enough space for a two-handed grip.

“Oh, ol’ Kaxéel'?” Red Wolf said, gesturing toward the bat with his glass, almost as though he were toasting it. “It was a gift from a friend who came from Alaska. Said the trees out there are just as tall as the buildings out here.” He picked up the bat and pointed to the top carving.

“This one is Raven, who made the world as we know it today.” As Mendels explained the carvings on his bat, Frank began to relax again.

* * *

“I. AM. CHACHACAT.”

In the center of the ring, tendrils of the fire demon’s breath, smelling of charcoal and sulfur, washed over Frank Doyle, billed this week as the Catholic Crusader. They were going for a pseudo-religious staging this week, it seemed. Being a crusader was better than being the Catholic Kid, he supposed, but only just.

As the his opponent snarled and gnashed in his direction, Frank rolled his eyes a little. This demon, probably from the outskirts of the third circle -- at best, Frank thought to himself, and snorted -- was clearly playing it up. He’d dealt with demons far more formidable with one hand tied behind his back. Literally!

“Oh, yes, let’s vanquish this demon one-handed, great idea, Sister Mary,” Frank muttered to himself, momentarily lost in memory. “No way that could come back to haunt us, again, literally!” Frank’s attention had strayed from the task at hand and he just barely managed to dodge a lick of flames coming his way. After the last fight, he had learned his lesson about wearing his nice clothing into the ring, and so he stood facing the demon bare-chested.

“What are you talking about?” the Fire Demon asked in an altogether different tone of voice. “I mean…” his voice once again grew ferocious. “I. AM. CHACHACAT. TREMBLE BEFORE ME, MORTAL."

“Yes, yes,” Frank said, this time addressing the demon. “I’m mortal, you have eternal life, we get it. I’m not impressed. You’re only immortal until you die, Demon, and then you die just like everything else.”

The Fire Demon waggled its eyebrows at Frank, excitedly. “I. AM. CHACHACAT,” it said again. “IF ANYONE WILL BE DYING, IT’S YOU. FOR I COMMAND FIRE, AS YOU CAN SEE.” Another lick of flame left the demon’s lips. “PREPARE TO MEET YOUR DOOM.”

“Already prepared, but I’d prefer to go out on my own terms, thank you very much,” Frank said, his right hook connecting with the demon’s jaw. The trick with these fellows was to never linger, Frank knew. If he got too close for too long, Frank thought, the heat from the demon’s skin could blister and burn his admittedly tough knuckles.

“Be cool, guy,” Chachacat murmured at Frank before again adopting his terrifying tone. “I. AM. CHACHACAT, SENT FROM BELOWWWW.”

Chacacat’s fist swung at Frank, much slower than he had imagined it would. Frank easily dodged the fist, and grabbed the demon’s wrist while kicking out with his legs. The demon went flying over Frank’s head, landing softly, if awkwardly, on its stomach.

Even though Frank knew the blow would not be enough to incapacitate Chachacat, the demon stayed down for the count, eyes resolutely closed. The bell rang and Frank shrugged, raising his fists in victory. Most of the crowd groaned, while a few (including, Frank noticed, Red Wolf Mendels) collected tidy sums of money from the rest.

Frank was toweling off when next he heard Chachacat’s voice, no longer tinged with fire and dredged from the depths of Hell below. He sounded… sort of just like a guy, you know?

“Hey Frank, good job in there. We really had them going, eh?” Chachacat said, clapping Frank on the shoulder.

“I’m sure I don’t take your meaning,” Frank said, toweling off his hair vigorously.

“Oh,” Chachacat said, “you mean nobody told you this one was fixed?” The demon sucked air between his teeth. “Yikes.”

“Yikes indeed,” Frank said, glaring in the direction of Mendels’s back.

“Boy, I sure am glad I stayed down after that first punch, then,” Chachacat continued, oblivious to Frank’s growing displeasure. “You got quite the reputation down below, if you know what I mean.”   
  
“This time I am certain don’t take your meaning,” Frank said.

“Come on, Frank Doyle? Bane of the Netherworld? Don’t tell me you don’t know about your reputation back home!”

“I really don’t.”

“Well, okay then, guy,” Chachacat winked, clearly not quite believing in Frank’s professed ignorance.

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re saying I have a reputation down there? You are literally a fire demon! If anyone has the reputation, it’s you!”

“Well, yeah. But that’s just a job, you know? Day to day I’m a regular mook like you.” He looked Frank up and down. “Well. Maybe not like you.”

Frank narrowed his eyes at Chachacat. Chachacat cleared his throat, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Say, do you like hot dogs? They’re like sausages, only better, with smoked meat, served in a bun? You gotta give them a go. I know a place around the corner that sells them. I would really like to take the Great Frank Doyle out for a hot dog.”

“Would this establishment by any chance sell liquor?”

“Um, probably!”

“Then I shall take you up on your generous offer, and I shall insist that I only get a drink instead of a smoked meat item.”

“Okay then, boss. But listen, I’m telling you, the hot dog is the greatest thing you humans have ever done. You oughta be proud.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple quick notes for this chapter. Red Wolf Mendels is mentioned only briefly on the Beyond Belief crossover episode with This American Wife. It's mentioned that he is a second generation rabbi and a fifth generation shaman, as well as a "heavy hitter," according to the TAH wiki. I took some elements of Berko Shemets, my favorite character from Michael Chabon's _Yiddish Policeman's Union_ , and some elements from actual history to build out the character of Red Wolf for this story. For further reading on the Mohawk ironworkers who built many of New York City's famous skyscrapers, check out "[The Mohawks in High Steel](http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1949/09/17/the-mohawks-in-high-steel)," an article from the New Yorker published in 1949 and "[Booming Out: Mohawk Ironworkers Build New York](http://www.sites.si.edu/exhibitions/exhibits/archived_exhibitions/booming/main.htm)" from the Smithsonian.


	4. Midtown Marauders vs. The Ghoulish Gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally meet Pterodactyl Jones, and, more importantly, Harvey.

“Say, pal. You got a left hook like the main export of Caddo County, Oklahoma. It comes outta Nowhere!”

Frank looked up from unwrapping his hands and found a shabby man wearing a trench coat and brimmed hat, despite being indoors. His bare torso still boasted a sheen of perspiration from his most recent bout, and he was sure his hair was askew. Probably his brand new and quite dashing mustache, as well.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” He asked, well aware that the answer was no. He hoped that the question would convey how little he desired the company of strangers.

It didn’t work.

“I’m Detective Jones, Private Investigator. You’re Frank Doyle, the Catholic Kid.”

“Actually, I go by the Catholic Crusader now, thanks to a new marketing effort by my manager,” Frank said.

“Right,” Jones said. “And tonight you were fighting the Gruesome Ghoul, right? I came to this fight expecting to see more strikeouts than knockouts.”

Frank quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, you expecting a baseball game? The doorman should have directed you to the nearest stadium.”

“No, I was referring to your uncanny ability to connect human fist to ghost jaw. Even if you can punch a ghost, in my experience, it usually results in a swing and a miss. That’s why Gruesome Ghoul is ranked so high: nobody’s ever so much as landed a punch. But you? It was like a phone operator’s switchboard: nothing but connections.”

Frank’s other eyebrow joined its friend.

Jones narrowed his eyes. “What’s your secret, friend?”

“I’m not your friend, pal.”

“I’m not your pal, amigo.”

“Well,” Frank said,  “this could take a while.” He turned his attentions back to unwrapping his hands. “What do you say you buy me and my friend Red Wolf a drink at the pub, and we’ll discuss it there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jones said. “I’ll meet you at the speakeasy down the street at midnight.”

* * *

“It all started with a dame,” Jones said. The three of them were seated at the dimly-lit bar. Jones was drinking a beer, Red Wolf a glass of wine, and Frank three fingers of bourbon, neat.

“It always starts with a dame,” Jones continued, warming up to his monologue. Frank nearly snorted into his glass, but held back for two reasons. First, bourbon up the nose was bourbon he hadn’t drunk, and second, he knew his snort would only attract questions about his past.

“This dame had eyes like diamonds: tough as nails, sharp as glass, and just as sparkly.” Bit of a tortured metaphor, Frank thought to himself, but said nothing.

Jones continued. “She came to me with a problem that she assumed only I could solve. I’m a private investigator, see, and I specialize in problems in a plane outside of normal detective work. You might say-”

“I know who you are,” Mendels said. “You’re the detective that figured out the Widow Silverman’s plumbing issue.”

“That’s right,” Jones said. “Grindylows can be a nasty business in the sewers, and, if I’m not mistaken, that one was working for the Tannin from the watershed upstate.”

“Old family grudge,” Mendels said, nodding. “Besides, you may have seen me around in the audience for your fights, Doyle.”

“So the dame, the one with the rocks for eyes? What did she want?” Frank asked.

“Well, she had a bit of a problem with some ghosts. And I happen to be a ghost specialist.”

“Ah,” Frank said, “is this then your ghostly pterodactyl that’s been following us around all evening and appears, just now, to be begging for some of the bar peanuts?”

“Well…” Jones said, “That’s Harvey, and he don’t belong to anybody but himself. He’s more like my partner. We go way back.”

“Back to the Cretaceous?” Frank asked, tossing some peanuts at the ghostly pterodon. Harvey snapped at them, but they continued their descent unperturbed by his translucent jaw.

“Nah, just a decade or so,” Jones said. “Harv here has saved my bacon more times than I can count. But he can’t help me out with this problem.”

“I thought a ghost dinosaur would automatically be an apex predator in the ghost world,” Frank said.

“You’d think so, right? But not these guys. They’re like a bunch of apples too far gone for cider-making: rotten to the core! Death didn’t slow them down, and since they already died, what have they got to live for?”

“And who exactly are ‘these guys?’” Mendels cut in. “And what’s it got to do with Frank and me?”

“Let me start at the beginning. You see, this dame, eyes like diamonds…”

“We already heard about the dame.”

“Okay then, let me start at chapter two. The dame’s family is being haunted by this gang of ghosts. These guys are like an extra from a wartime daily: nothing but bad news.”

“We got that part. What exactly have they done?”

“It’s your standard haunting, but these guys have figured out that nobody can make them leave.”

“Have you tried exorcising them?”

“Of course I’ve tried exorcising them, but it didn’t work. They say they won’t leave until someone makes them leave, and all my punches just whiff right through. Then the taunting started.”

Jones stared down into his half-empty beer glass. “It got pretty personal. They called Harvey a dinosaur.”

Frank and Mendels shared a look. “Well…” Frank said, “isn’t he?”

“They meant it in a very mean way,” Jones said. “That’s why I need someone who can punch a ghost in the face. Or I need to figure out how to do it myself. So, Doyle, spill.”

Frank shot the rest of his bourbon back, and held out his glass expectantly. Jones got the hint, and flagged down the bartender. “Give the man whatever he wants, Charlie,” Jones said.

Charlie looked at Frank. Frank said, “Bourbon, neat, and fill ‘er up.” Charlie raised his eyebrows, but began pouring four fingers of bourbon into the highball glass.

Frank looked back at Jones, appraisingly, and sighed. “Fine,” he said, and began to loosen his tie.

“Wait, what?” Jones said, as Frank pulled the tie over his head and began to unbutton his collar.

“About six months before I left the Church, I met an old woman. She knew I was having my differences with the faith, and she let me know that there were other avenues to similar results when it comes to the business of fighting.” Frank unbottoned his shirt front to his navel, then turned his back on Jones. Frank’s shirt slid down his well-muscled shoulders, exposing a tattoo on his left shoulder blade.

“You’ve seen this before, right?” Frank asked Jones. Ever since his shirt tore that first night he had taken to fighting bare-chested.

“Of course I have.”

The design was roughly square and symmetrical. The top and bottom featured four hillocks, looking for all the world like a clenched fist. It had arrows pointing left and right, as well as a more serpentine shape bifurcating the design.

[ ](http://imgur.com/MoHXlt2)

"I recognize some of those symbols," Mendels said. Frank noticed he had picked up his bat and was absent-mindedly stroking some of the symbols carved into the wood. "I see some Norse stuff in there. I've never seen a full design like that before, though."

"Madame Z called it a Fist of Frank." Frank said. "As far as I know it is a unique design." He was very fond of the tattoo. It was the first thing that had been truly his and his alone. After, well... it became clear that the Church had no qualms with putting children in harm's way. While he was sure he was worth more to them dead than alive, he was equally sure they wouldn't exactly go out of their way to protect or prepare him.

If they were going to make him punch ghosts in the face, he reasoned, he should be able to connect with something other than ectoplasm. His new policy of "Demon hunter, arm thyself" had led him straight to Madam Z and her tiny curio shop in Harlem.

He had worked with Madame Z on the symbology for his tattoo. Included were symbols for strength, spirit, and aether. He had insisted on the inclusion of motifs from the Lesser Key of Solomon, which was standard for binding demons.

"Once I had this tattoo, voila! Not so unpunchable now, ghosts!" Frank glared at the only ghost present, Harvey, who he knew did not deserve it. He threw some more peanuts in the pterodon's direction by way of apology.

“So, what about it, fellas? Can you help me out? The dame has got piles of her daddy's money with our names on it."

Frank wasn't exactly sure how many knew suits a pile of money would buy, but it had to be at least one. Bespoke. Navy. Pin striped.

"Looks like we better make an appointment with Madame Z," Frank said, and signaled the bartender for a refill.

* * *

There was a bell on Madame Z's door, which was strange. In Frank's experience, she always knew exactly when visitors would arrive, often before they did. At least, she always knew when Frank was coming, and often had a glass of whiskey waiting on the table for him when he did.

Mendels, Jones, Frank, and Harvey entered the shop. The absence of Madame Z was contrasted against the presence of nearly everything else. The shop was packed to the gills with mystic trinkets and general bric-a-brac of all varieties. On one shelf a suspiciously fresh-looking skull sat beside a false idol (you could see the shoddy workmanship, which was just poor form, Frank thought). A couple of cracked crystal balls jockeyed for position beside a book printed on what was probably vellum (definitely vellum, Frank thought, and decided against a closer inspection). Scarves of every shade were strewn about on all surfaces.

"What is this, some half-baked mystical storage locker?" Mendels asked.

"Well, yes," Frank said.

"And your Madame Z is scheister-in-chief, I imagine," Mendels said.

"That's just her day job," said Frank. "Mendels, my good man, you know as well as I do that theatrics beats out reality every day of the week."

"And twice on the Sabbath," Mendels said, nodding.

"Well she's the real deal," he said, "but an old mystical woman's gotta eat. And telling the truth doesn't exactly get you very far in this town."

Just then, Jones seemed to notice Harvey had flapped his way over to the far table. "What's that you got, Harv?" he asked.

Harvey beckoned them with a claw. On the table before the ghostly pterodactyl lay a glass of whiskey, for Frank, a piece of berry pie with slowly melting ice cream, and a plate laden with fry bread covered in meat stew. Harvey was gulping frantically at what looked to be a ghostly fish with far too many teeth. The fish flopped as though it were alive, although, Frank reasoned, it had probably already died at least once.

Jones's eyes went wide at the sight of the pie. "Boysenberry?" he said in disbelief. Mendels had already made a move for the fry bread.

He tore off a chunk of the bread and dipped it in the stew. "Mutton," he said, chewing loudly. "Just like my mother used to make."

Just then the beaded curtain clattered aside and in stalked Madame Z. A compact black woman of indeterminate age but with the bearing of centuries, she commanded the attention of the three men. Jones let his fork drop and Mendels set his plate back on the table, gently. Frank took another sip as she appraised the two new men and one new pterodon.

"Ahhhhh," she said, exhaling more breath than seemed possible. "Who have you brought me today, Doyle?"

"These are my associates, Red Wolf Mendels and, um, Something Jones. Mr. Jones here has run into some trouble with ghosts and needs to know how he might go about fighting them."

"Ah, I see. I see. And you showed them your tattoo, no doubt, and now they want copies? What did I tell you about that, Frank?"

"To keep it quiet. And I have. For almost two years! Father Lancaster never knew, nor any of the nuns. But I don't answer to anyone these days, and one of these men is almost a friend."

She nodded knowingly and came closer to him than he expected. "You would still be wise to listen to Madame Z," she hissed, close enough to threaten his drink.

She raised her voice and addressed the room. "Very well. You wish to fight ghosts. I suppose you think it's a good idea."

Jones nodded earnestly. "These ghosts are real bad news, Madame Z. Bullies!" He reached out and patted Harvey's crest. Harvey nuzzled up into his hand.

"And just what would you have me do about it?" she asked. "I am merely a trader of magical goods! Notice that I did not say 'services.' If it's an exorcism you seek, you'd be better off asking this one's old colleagues." She jabbed her thumb in Frank's direction.

"Oh no, the Church is staying out of this one or I walk," Frank said.

"Listen here," Jones said. "We are asking only that you give us the tools to fight these guys ourselves."

"Say that I do," Madame Z said. "What then?"

"Why not do it and see what happens?" Jones retorted immediately.

"Suppose I'm not that curious," Madame Z said.

"Suppose your cat'll still be alive," Jones said.

"I don't have a cat."

"That ain't the only thing curiosity ever killed."

"Is that a threat?"

"What if it was?"

"Enough!" Frank's voice rang like a bell above the barbed back-and-forth. "Will you help us, Madame Z? You needn't be involved in anything beyond giving these two tattoos."

"Ah," Madame Z exhaled, composure regained. "I cannot possibly give these two tattoos."

Mendels grunted and looked over at Frank.

"Furthermore, you don't need me to be able to bring harm to those who have passed on. You, Tall, Dark, and Mysterious, pass me that bat you're holding onto."

"What do you want with it?" Mendels asked, loathe to let it go.

"Just seeing if my theory is correct," Madame Z said, holding out her hands expectantly.

Mendels gingerly handed Kaxéel' to her. She ran her fingertips over the carvings. Eyes closed, she whispered something to herself in a language that was neither English nor Latin. She paused and cocked her head to one side, listening to something only she could hear.

"Tell me," she said, addressing Mendels, "how did this come into your possession?"

"A friend gave it to me," Mendels said. "Said it would offer me the protection of ancestors and stir up trouble whenever I needed it. That's her name: Kaxéel'. Means trouble."

"Oh yes," said Madame Z. "And what marvelous trouble she could cause. Keep an eye on her," she added. "Never let her out of your hands."

She paused, considering for a moment. "Unless, of course, you wish to sell it. Unwise as that would be, you come straight to me first," she said, giving Kaxéel' back to Mendels. He reached out, eagerly.

"You do not need my help to hit any creature, dead or alive," Madame Z declared, pointing at Mendels. "Kaxéel' will bring trouble to anything you want, alive or otherwise."

Mendels nodded, caressing the face carved into the bat. He didn't notice that he never told her the name of his weapon.

"What about me?" Jones asked.

"What about you?" Madame Z asked.

"I'm the one who wanted to punch ghosts in the first place!"

"Ah, yes. You, Trench Coat, yes, of course I'm talking to you, you argumentative little man, you can already touch ghosts. Just look at your little pterodactyl friend, even now leaning into your touch."

"So?"

"So," Madame Z continued, "there is nothing more I can give you to allow you to touch ghosts further."

"But then why can't I punch them?" Jones asked.

"My petulant friend," Madame Z said, sighing, "when you are as old as I am you will find that some things in life are not black and white. And some things are. Some of us are made for loving, like you. Others, for fighting."

Frank gulped down the remainder of his drink and rose to find a refill.

"Take Frank, for example."

"Rather you didn't," Frank said under his breath, pouring himself another full glass. His back was turned toward the table, but he could feel her eyes on the back of his head.  

"Our Frank's a fighter, through and through. Such anger, such zeal! Father Lancaster saw his potential, I saw it, you saw it."

Both Jones and Mendels murmured agreement.

Frank Doyle rested both palms on the countertop and hung his head. He knew she was right, she always was. He'd been made for fighting that night in Maine, and trained for it ever since. It was all he knew.

Well, that and drinking. Doyle looked up, smiled ruefully, and toasted the empty air. Madame Z had long since turned back to Jones.

She gestured toward Harvey, who was lying prone on Jones's lap, enjoying belly rubs to their utmost. "You are clearly of the latter disposition. You may touch a ghost, but it is not in your nature to harm it."

"But Frank-"

Doyle cut him off. "Never mind that, my good fellow, it seems we have collected all the information we came to collect." He shot the rest of his drink back and raised his empty glass to Madame Z. "Thank you for being not at all helpful," he said.

"Frank!" Mendels exclaimed. "That's not true! She told me about Kaxéel'."

"Yeah, and she gave Harvey a good meal, for which he says thank you," Jones said, patting Harvey's claws. Harvey had taken up residence on Jones's left shoulder while they were talking. The pterosaur nodded his head toward Madame Z.

"Be that as it may, I believe we are done here. Good day, Madame Z. It had been as frustrating as usual to see you."

Madame Z crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, watching them leave. She had said something to offend Frank Doyle, she knew, but nothing she said was false.

Shaking her head, she began to tidy up the dishes the men had left behind. She was a little surprised to find Frank's glass had already found its way to the sink.

* * *

“This is the place,” Jones said, as they entered the alley.

“Nice place,” Mendels said.

It was not a nice place. The brick walls of the alley were dripping with a combination of drizzling rain and hot oil from nearby restaurants. As the raindrops hit the hot oil they sizzled up into tiny puffs of steam. The buildings looked to be greasily sweating and panting out puffs of hot breath at the same time.

In short, it was disgusting, slick, and just the sort of thing Doyle had come to expect from his life.

From the other end of the alley, they appeared: three ghostly figures. Each had a different ghostly affectation. The first was a traditional and unimaginative ghost’s ghost. It looked for all the world like a child or slight woman with a sheet draped over their body, features obscured but for two eye holes. The second ghost was more corporeal. He had clearly been a fine gentleman in life: his waistcoat was pristine, and though his cravat was at least (Doyle made a quick calculation) fifteen seasons out-of-date, it had once been all the rage in at least one New York borough.

The third ghost was frankly terrifying, and, technically speaking, not a ghost at all. It was humanoid in shape: two arms, two legs, and one gaping maw cast open to the skies above. Its limbs had several joints in places where joints should not be -- though it was unclear whether these were functional or simply part of the ghost’s overall pastiche. It had fingers that were half again too long for its hands and, most terrifying of all, it had a bulbous, protruding nose. As the light caught the feature it glinted a blood-soaked red.

Looking at the ghoul made Doyle’s blood run cold and his knuckles itch. He shifted his weight, almost imperceptibly, into a fighter’s stance. He looked left, where Mendles was tightening his grip on Kaxéel', and right, where Harvey and Jones were conferring about their best plan of attack. He waited, blood pounding.

He waited, at least, as long as he could before turning in exasperation toward Jones. “Look here, Jones,” he said, “You said they were chomping at the bit to fight us. By the looks of them, they’re doing nothing of the sort!” The ghosts at the other end of the alley glowered at them.

“Oh, you just wait, Frank. They’ll be over here soon enough.”

“Fine, wonderful. But let the record show that I am uncomfortable going into this scenario without a plan.”

“Call the play, Frank,” Mendels said, raising Kaxéel' to his shoulder.

“Sure,” said Doyle. “Jones, you and harvey take short and sheety over there. Red Wolf, you aim for tall, dark, and screaming. Me, I’ll keep an eye on this gentleman,” Doyle gestured toward the well-appointed ghost of a man.

“Dandy,” Mendels said.

“Yes, that’s right, I’m fighting the dandy,” Doyle said, suppressing an eye roll.

“No, I meant-”

Mendels’s reply was cut off by the short ghost rushing toward Jones. Jones stood his ground and waited until the last minute, diving aside just as the ghost reached him. Behind him hovered Harvey, like a prehistoric hummingbird. As soon as Jones was out of the way, Harvey lunged at the ghost and began snapping his mighty jaws. He couldn’t gain purchase, it seemed, and only succeeded in tattering the ghost’s already battered sheet.

Meanwhile, the creature straight from Doyle’s nightmares (Doyle tried to cut that thought off at the pass, but it was too late) cantered toward Mendels on its many-jointed legs. Kaxéel' ascribed a low arc, just nicking one of the ghoul’s elbows. The ghoul cried out in pain, high-pitched and keening, and wheeled around to face Mendels again.

Doyle’s fists were clenched, ready for a fight. His terror and fury were all but forgotten, having taken a back seat to the tranquility of the fight, the choreography of fists and feet, and the rhythm his heart beating in time to some of the raindrops. And yet his dandy fellow was hanging back.

Doyle was just about to bring the fight to him when a sharp cry from Jones interrupted his movement. He spun toward Jones and found him on his knees, with Harvey knocked unconscious several feet away. The ghost seemed to be delighting in knocking Jones back and forth, smacking him around with quick, uppercutting motions. Jones looked to be losing consciousness, not even raising a hand in his own defense as the ghost hit him again and again.

Doyle took several strong strides over to where Jones was knelt, swaying. He reared back his right fist and punched toward where he thought the ghost’s face should be. As if in slow motion, the ghost reared back and turned, looking stunned (insofar as a ghost with no facial features beyond eye holes could look stunned) at Doyle’s fist.

Robe first, the ghost began to disintegrate, trickling down like sand from where its shape once floated. Once it was nothing but ectoplasm, what was left of the ghost blinked out of existence.

Doyle turned his attention back to the dandy. The fashionable ghost was still not fighting -- though whether he was holding back because he was startled by his friend’s disintegration and subsequent disappearance or simply “not a fighting type” (Doyle spat on the ground at the thought), it was impossible to say.

Mendels and the ghoul were fairly well-matched, trading blows back and forth. Kaxéel' had gotten in a few good hits, but so, it seemed, had the ghoul. Mendels was bleeding from several deep scratches and puncture wounds to his face and arms. He wiped the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand and brought Kaxéel' around again. Doyle heard the crunching of bones and both Mendels and the creature cried out in pain.

Doyle approached the ghoul from the behind, staying where Kaxéel' couldn’t make any trouble for him. He tapped twice on the ghoul’s shoulder. As the ghoul whirled around, slavering at this new target, he shot his fist forward into what he assumed was the creature’s sternum.

Much to his dismay, Doyle suddenly found himself wrist-deep inside a ghoul. The hole around his fist grew wider. The beast scrabbled at its torso, unable to stop itself from disintegrating around the fist. Doyle drew out his fist as quickly as he could, but, despite his best efforts, he had a fistful of ectoplasm.

Doyle turned his attention, once more, to the dandy. The dandy smirked at him. “Pterodactyl Jones and Co.,” the dandy said, enunciating the abbreviation, “this has been a fine evening, but I’m afraid I simply must run.” The ghost picked at his sleeves, pretending he was buttoning up his cuffs, but, Doyle noted, he had never unbottoned them. “Rest assured, friends. I will call on you when you least expect it. And I imagine it will not go as well for you then.”

The dandy turned on his (well-made, leather) heel and strode briskly away.

Doyle looked to Mendels, who, despite the blood, was not badly injured. He turned to Jones, who lay in the street. Doyle lifted the unconscious Jones onto his shoulders and looked at Harvey, who had just begun to stir.

“Harvey, I know you can’t fly, but are you able to perch?” Doyle asked the injured pterodon.

Harvey nodded, and Doyle pointed to Kaxéel'. Mendels leaned down and lowered the bat to allow Harvey to perch gingerly upon it. Mendels drew the bat slowly to his shoulder, careful not to dislodge its new ghostly companion, and set it across his back, like a yoke that weighed heavily upon him. Others might have thought that strange: Mendels was a large man with shoulders like anvils, and Harvey weighed very close to nothing at all. Doyle understood. He carried the same weight in addition to the man on his back. Mendels draped his wrists over Kaxéel' and nodded to Doyle.

The two men shuffled slowly into the night, carrying their compatriots.

* * *

The Midtown Marauders did indeed receive a call from the ghostly dandy. He strode into their new office when they least expected it, which is to say less than a week after the fight in which Doyle had dispatched two of his friends.

“‘Midtown Marauders,’ is that what you’re calling yourselves now?” the dandy asked upon entry, lip curling.

“That’s what it says on the door,” Jones said, not looking up from his typewriter. He was recovering well from his beating.

“An office!” the dandy exclaimed. “So official!”

“I don’t remember inviting you in,” Jones said.

“No, my dear fellow, that’s vampires, who are an entirely different species altogether. If you are indeed intending to ‘Right the Supernatural Wrongs,’ as you lay out on the door, you really must learn the difference.”

“Did you come here to fight?” Mendels growled. “Or did you come here to talk?”

“Oh, neither,” the ghost said with a wave of his hand. “You see, I find myself in a bit of a pickle, of the supernatural variety, you understand, and I am ashamed to say I am in need of your services.”

“What sort of pickle are we talking about?” Doyle asked.

“Well, you see, I initially wanted revenge. After all, you three -- and you in particular,” he said, pointing to Doyle, “killed my friends and co-workers. In this scenario, I’m sure you can agree, a desire for revenge is only natural.”

The Midtown Marauders said nothing.

“So, as you might imagine, I decided to summon a little something from the great beyond to pay you three a visit. But the thing that came through turned out to be a tad nastier than I had originally intended.”

“What exactly did you do?” Doyle asked.

“Nothing you couldn’t handle, big strong men like yourself,” the Dandy said. “Or, rather, the other way around. I wanted to bring something through that you couldn’t handle, to teach you a lesson. Anyway, one thing led to another and suddenly, wouldn’t you know it, I had a demi-god of death and destruction wantonly careening about without any care for the proprietorship of summoning circles or commands from its master.”

“So you let a demi-god loose on the city,” Doyle said. It wasn’t a question. Jones looked aghast, Mendels looked murderous, and Doyle just felt tired.

“That’s about the gist of it, yes,” the dandy said. “So, now, if you don’t mind, could the three of you capture and/or kill the demi-god I summoned particularly to capture and/or kill you? And could you do it quickly? That’d be great.”

Mendles crossed his arms at the ghost. Jones knocked his hat back and scrubbed at his eyes. Doyle crossed to the bar and poured himself another drink.

“I’ll take your silence as an enthusiastic ‘yes, we’ll take the case!’ Now, if you’ll excuse me, I simply must run. Best of luck and all that.”

As the ghost strode out of the room, Doyle looked over at Mendels and Jones. Kaxéel' was already in Mendels’s hands, and Jones was putting on his traveling trench coat. Harvey, for his part, was perched on Jones’s shoulder, beak open in anticipation.

Doyle sighed and finished his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to [secrets-of-luftnarp](http://secrets-of-luftnarp.tumblr.com/) for beta and support in this endeavor. Special and amazing shout-out to [unikirin](http://unikirin.tumblr.com/), who designed Frank's ghost punchin' tattoo! Amazing!
> 
> Also, it was mostly a throwaway line here, but you should learn more about the [Tannin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tannin_\(monster\)) that Jones and Mendels talked about, a sea monster in the Hebrew tradition!


	5. Doyle vs. The Demon Horror of 65th Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things with the Midtown Marauders were going well. Until they weren’t.

Fear makes you see things that aren’t there. Doyle awoke most nights drenched in cold sweat even though he had moved into an apartment with an actual heater. On those nights that he was wrenched from dreams of danger, fists clenched and ready for a fight, heart beating a military march against his ribcage, Madame Z’s voice came to him: “Our Frank’s a fighter, through and through,” a reminder that his body didn’t belong to him, had never really belonged to him. He was part of the Fight, he always had been and would be, no matter how far he ran from it. It didn’t matter if he hated it, it only mattered that he was good at it. He would be fighting the beasts from within and without until the day he lost.

Drinking himself back to sleep was getting harder. 

Night terrors or no, life carried on. After those first fights, the Midtown Marauders reached a sort of a happy medium. None of them was technically a medium, and they weren’t exactly happy, but, well. There was a rhythm to it. 

A nice looking dame (Doyle was picking up Jonesey’s idioms without trying these days) or gent would come into the office with a problem. Jones would cinch up his trench coat while Harvey flapped over to perch on his shoulder, Mendels would give his bat a few practice swings, and Frank would roll his eyes and brush the lint off his jacket and then they’d go and fight whatever beastie went bump in the night.  

After a couple months, Frank had saved enough up to buy himself a nice jacket. It was a deep blue velvet and lined in red satin. The weather was turning, getting darker, and grayer, and it kept Doyle almost warm. He didn’t have a coat yet, and he sometimes gazed longingly at Jonesey’s trench or Mendels’s long black overcoat. But the freezing weather would have to reach the depths of Hell before Doyle would ask to borrow anything. 

Besides, the bleakness of the weather was almost nice. When fingers ached with cold he could almost drown out Madam Z’s words, still echoing in his head. The slush that seeped into his shoes stabbed icy daggers in his feet, but it made the pain in his chest less noticeable. 

Still, sometimes, when he could bear it no more, he’d find Chachacat for some sparring, which would warm him up a bit. Punching a fire demon will do that. 

* * *

Things were going well. Until they weren’t.

It had started out as a standard call. Big bad, Central Park, easy as pie. An Elder God on its way to Rhode Island somehow got turned around in the Hudson Bay, unthinkable evil causing people to pass out or spout gibberish, the usual. 

The first warning came when they attempted to leave the office. Harvey wouldn’t go.

“C’mon, Harv,” Jones said, poking at the pterodactyl with his index finger. “We’ve gotta get gone!”

Harvey refused to meet his gaze, but shook his spectral head.

“He’s never done this before,” Jones said to the other Marauders. “C’mon Harv!”

“Let’s go without him,” Mendels said. 

Doyle looked at Harvey, who was still avoiding anyone’s gaze. “Do you think he knows something we don’t?” he asked. 

“Harv, do you know something we don’t?” Harv glanced up quickly, but immediately returned to shaking his head. 

“Let’s go,” Mendels said again, a little more forcefully this time.

Jones grabbed a shoulder holster, pistol, and ammunition  from the cabinet, which was strange. He usually chose to go unarmed, but he usually also had a pterosaur to watch his back. Doyle shot one last look at Harvey, who was digging  a  claw on his right toe into the stool. Doyle sighed and locked him in. He was a ghost, after all, and he could follow later,  if he felt so moved. 

The fight was going well. Until it wasn’t.

They arrived on the scene to find the Elder God frightening a Central Park carriage driver into madness and spooking the horses, quite unnecessarily, Doyle thought.

“Hey! You! Beastie!” Doyle called up to it. 

The creature turned, giving the cabbie a chance to escape so quickly his top hat tumbled to the ground. The creature was about the size of a well appointed Midtown apartment with a face full of tentacles and eyes full of malice. It was a sickly grey-green color that put Doyle in mind of rotting flesh dredged up from the ocean’s depths. Upon reflection, this probably wasn’t too far off from the truth. 

“Well, boys, it looks like we’re going up against the Chef’s Special at a C-rated sushi place,” Jones intoned, “this seafood’s gone sour.”

“Hey PJ, you think this guy counts as shellfish?” Mendels asked, smacking Kaxéel' against his palm.

“You know, you would know better than I what the Torah has to say about this,” Doyle cut in, “but I would strongly caution you against eating any part of this creature.”

“Too late,” Mendels said. “I’m gonna eat him for  _ breakfast _ .” Lighting fast, he planted his left foot forward and swung Kaxéel' true, hitting a vulnerable lower extremity -- the creature had appendages, but no knees to take out. The Elder God stumbled and roared, fangs glinting in the moonlight, before gingerly finding its balance again.  

Jones cocked his gun and aimed it at the tentacle-mess. He set his sights, but before he could get a shot off, the monster knocked the gun out of his hands with one set of tentacles while knocking him completely unconscious with another. Jones was down for the count, but this gave Mendels and Kaxéel' an opportunity to snap the monster’s head back with an uppercut to the jaw. 

Doyle grabbed Jones’s feet and dragged him over to the sidewalk while the monster and Mendels were whaling on each other. Doyle looked over at the gun Jones had brought along, and shook his head. He was going to do this with his fists of not at all. Kaxéel' and Mendels had bloodied the monster, and Mendels fell back, panting. His eyes met Doyles, and they both nodded.

Doyle unbuttoned his right cuff, then his left, and rolled up his sleeves, slowly. Deliberately. It was a portrait of madness, and not just because the Elder God seemed to send innocent bystanders to their gibbering fates. All that stood between relative sanity and total, hysterical terror was a Jewish Indian Medicine Man with a mystical baseball bat and a lapsed Catholic with nothing but his fists and a chip on his shoulder. 

Frank raised his fists and sank down into his stance. Doyle felt his body take over.

Back in the time before, when he had fought demons for a higher power rather than the greater good, he had experienced it. That moment when body and mind quieted and worked in harmony, and everything narrowed down to a single purpose: the Fight. Single-minded devotion, Father Lancaster had called it, a blessing from God on high. It didn’t exactly feel like a blessing, Doyle thought, but neither was it unpleasant. Doyle, so often pulled in so many directions, by guilt, by devotion, and by a cynical understanding of the world as it was. The background noise quieted, and all that was left was his core self, drawn taut as a drawstring, and a target. 

Without even a glance to give any indication, Doyle was upon the beast. He ripped, he tore, he bit, and above all, he punched. Mendels stayed planted on the ground and dealt uppercut after uppercut as Doyle launched himself into the air, atop the creature, pummelling the beast’s head from above. His fighting took on a brutality he hadn’t known for more than a year as he ripped at the beast’s tentacles and tore at its eyes. 

Finally, the beast kicked its head back and roared in pain. As the sound died down, Doyle called down to Mendels, “Call your shot!” 

Mendels winked at Doyle, pointed Kaxéel' straight at the beast’s temple, and wound up his strike. 

Doyle gripped the beast’s neck with his knees and brought his fist down right at the base of its skull. It whipped down at Mendels and Kaxéel' at full speed. Mendels, grinning, reared back.

Equal parts David and Hiawatha, Red Wolf swung with the power of all his generations behind him. He sent Kaxéel' home, striking the monster exactly where he’d called his shot.

The beast didn’t have time to react. The light went out of its eyes as it staggered down onto its knees. Mendels turned, raising both fists in victory to an imaginary crowd. As though in slow motion, Doyle felt the beast below him begin to fall, and shift. Cephalopodic creatures obey a physics all their own, and instead of falling straight down, the creature  _ churned  _ like the sea blown backward. Doyle tried to shout a warning, but it was too late.  He could only watch from above as the beast’s open maw fell directly onto Mendels, a fang piercing his skull.

Doyle cried out and leapt to the ground, but it was too late. Mendels was dead.

* * *

Frank cradled his head in his hands. He heard footsteps approaching, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. He was cold. So cold.

A grey shoe kicked his foot to get his attention. He blinked up at the figure standing above him. The man’s face was silhouetted against a lit streetlamp, a deep well of darkness. Doyle suspected that, had his face not been shadowed, he still wouldn’t have been able to see it clearly. 

“So. You’re the Frank Doyle I’ve heard so much about,” the man said. His voice was completely monotone and tinged, at the edges, with a strange buzzing sound. “You liked my puppy?”

The man patted an amputated tentacle that had landed nearby. “Such a shame he had to die.” Doyle looked up. The man was clearly not talking about Mendels. 

“I know who you are, Frank Doyle, and I know what you did. I am the Agent, and I exist at the end of all things. I hoped it would be your soul I would be weighing tonight, but that will come another time. Soon enough, I expect.”

The man gestured, and the tentacle hopped to life and trailed after him. He walked ten paces down the street, and reached out to a doorway that had not been there moments before. His hand on the doorknob, he turned back to Doyle. “I’ll be waiting,” he called out. 

Doyle felt he should make some withering remark, some objection, but found he had nothing. His words had left him. 

* * *

From that point on, it seemed, everything was grey. The few leaves that still clung to the trees had withered, the sky turned a bruised slate color, and the wind bit through every coat Doyle had. He stopped going into the office, which was just fine. He didn’t want to be reminded.

Besides, he had a new friend, one he couldn’t kill: a cough that wracked his ribcage but never quite turned lethal. It was fine. 

Frank wasn’t actually trying to kill himself. It’s just that he didn’t want to exist anymore. 

Jones visited once. Doyle had stopped paying his heating oil bill, so the room was just barely above freezing. Harvey trembled, even though Doyle was pretty sure he wasn’t actually bothered by the cold. 

Jones brought some whiskey as a peace offering, and Doyle poured them both a generous glass. 

“Frank,” Jones said, “come back. Red Wolf wouldn’t have wanted to see you like this.”

Doyle began to reply, but was interrupted by a coughing fit. He waited for it to die down before he croaked out a response.

“PJ, my man, I will not come back. That’s as much for you as for me. More, in fact.” Doyle took another swig from his glass, and barely managed to stifle another coughing fit that would have sent the alcohol flying.

“Well that’s just like bath time at Old MacDonald’s farm,” Jones said. “A bucket of hogwash!”

“Jonesey, I know you don’t half believe in curses,” Doyle said. “But I half do, and what’s more, I’ve got a man dressed all in grey who promised to come back from me.” 

Doyle pondered the drink in his glass. “I’d prefer you weren’t here when he comes back,” he said. “There have been enough people caught in my crossfire.”

“Look,” Jones said, “I know I’m a broken record on this, but I’m sorry I got knocked out in that fight. I’m sorry Mendels died.”

Doyle met his eyes. “I am too,” he said, and sighed. “I even think Kaxéel' misses him.” He gestured over in the corner where the bat seemed to glower. 

“Jones, my mind is made up and nothing you can say will change it. I suggest you leave and never come back,” Doyle said. He kept his voice light, but his intention was not.

Jones opened his mouth to respond, so Doyle cut him off with another coughing fit. Jones shot the rest of his drink back and nodded. 

“Hey Frank?” he called, just before closing the door for the last time.

Doyle merely coughed in response.

Jones tilted his chin toward Doyle. “Here’s looking at you, friend,” he said, settled his fedora back on his head, and walked out of Doyle’s life.

Doyle couldn’t help but be relieved. What others might see as cruelty, he couldn’t help but see as kindness. Jones would be spared, as would Harvey, of the curse of his friendship. 

* * *

Time passed, and the nights got colder. Doyle’s cough got worse, and made it near impossible to sleep.

He began to dream while awake, seeing spirits all around him. Were they truly there? Or were they only his memories, throwing themselves up against his barely conscious mind? There was no way to be sure.

Doyle talked to them, sometimes, when the coughing wasn’t so bad. It was almost nice to talk to them, the ghosts of his past: a young boy from Maine, a young woman, devout to the end, and others he had lost or failed along the way.

On a Sunday (of course it was a Sunday) in the last month of winter, the door opened. The Agent stood on the threshold, expectantly. He had come for him, as he said he would. Dressed all in grey.

Doyle gestured him in.

Doyle had barely moved for a week, choosing instead to lay as still as possible and cough and try not to feel anything: not the cold seeping into his bones nor the chill that gripped his heart. Sometimes, if he tried very hard, he could think about nothing at all. He could still light a candle and stare at its flame.

The Agent strode into the room with obvious disgust. 

“This has gone on long enough,” he said, nudging Doyle with a foot. “It’s time to end this charade and be done with this. You’re coming with me to weigh your soul.”

Doyle glared up at him. Whether it was the dying embers of his will to live or simple sheer bloodymindedness, Doyle was not going to go lying down. 

He tried to sit up.

He failed to sit up.

Okay, perhaps he was going to go lying down, but he wasn’t going to be helpful. He opened his mouth to defy the Agent, to send him back from whence he came on the force of a well-chosen biting remark, only to have his now-thin frame wracked by another coughing fit. 

But from out of the corner, he heard a voice: “No. Not yet.”

The spirit of Red Wolf Mendels stepped from behind Kaxéel' as easily as anyone else would cross the threshold of a doorway, and picked the bat up. He knocked it against his palm a few times, as though testing its weight in his spectral hands. 

He looked over at Doyle and winked. He wound up and sent Kaxéel' flying with all speed against the backs of the Agent’s knees, sending him sprawling.

Doyle reached up behind his head and grabbed the heavy silver candlestick he’d brought with him from St. Michael’s so long ago. Doyle brought the candlestick down on the Agent’s head, using the weight of the candlestick to as the main driver of force. 

It worked far better than Doyle could have hoped, burning the Agent’s skin like acid and smoldering its way through his skull. Doyle looked at the candlestick, perplexed, and then remembered that there was a much more important mystery in the room. 

“Red Wolf,” he croaked out.

“What kind of a man would I be if I let my friend die at the hands of a half-rate vampire posing as some sort of judge, jury, and executioner?” the ghost of Mendels said. “More importantly, what kind of man would I be if I left Kaxéel' behind?”

Doyle smiled a weak half-smile. 

Mendels crouched down as Doyle tried to pull himself up, and stared Doyle straight in the face. 

“Frank! Frank, listen to me,” he said. “I’m not always going to be here to pull you out of trouble.”

Doyle tried to shoot him a look that he hoped conveyed that, on the contrary, Mendels was likely the one to be bringing trouble with him (and he didn’t just mean Kaxéel'), while also being the sort of look that expressed gratitude for his help in this particular instance. 

Mendels laughed, and Doyle’s heart lightened just a little.

“You’ve got to get back into fighting shape,” Mendels said, and Doyle rolled his eyes. “No, I’m serious, Frank! Great and terrible things are coming for you.”

Doyle managed to pull off a “what else is new” eyeroll while also giving Mendels a little nod. “I will,” he said.

The next morning, a small beam of light shone into Doyle’s apartment. Kaxéel' was gone, as was any evidence of Red Wolf Mendels. But Doyle’s breath rattled a little less in his lungs, and he began to make plans to go outside -- even if it was just a trip to the liquor store.

* * *

A week later, Doyle ran into Madam Z in Central Park, very nearly literally.

“Oh Frank!” she exclaimed. “You do not look well.”

“You should have seen the other fellow,” Doyle said, with half a smirk. Her concern was so earnest that he felt compelled to add, “Just getting over feeling a little under the weather.”

Madam Z’s face broke into a wide smile. “That’s good, my dear, that’s good! After all, we must get you into fighting shape!”

“You’re the second person who’s said that to me,” Doyle said. “What am I to be fighting?”

“Oh,” Madam Z said, exasperated, and waved her hands. “Don’t you know it’s just an expression? Now. There’s something I simply must tell you, it’s a message I’ve had for you for some time now… what is it…”

Doyle waited patiently for about as long as he could while Madam Z tapped her temple with her index finger, her bangles lightly jingling as she did.

“I really must be going Madam Z,” Doyle said. “I would say it is always a pleasure to see you, but we both know-”

“Oh, that’s right. Frank! I am to tell you not to worry. She’s coming.”

“Well, I was worried not at all, and I don’t know whom you’re talking about, so-” 

“Frank,” Madam Z said, grabbing his shoulders in her hands and catching his eyes in hers. “You cannot give up now. Listen to me. She’s coming.”

“Who’s coming?” Frank asked.

“When you meet her, you’ll know,” Madam Z said, and then blinked very rapidly for a few moments. She looked over at Frank and seemed surprised. “Frank! I have a message for you. What was it…” 

“I think you just gave it to me,” Frank said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “You told me she was coming, but you wouldn’t tell me who she is.”    
  
“Oh yes,” Madam Z said. “That was it. Don’t worry. When you meet her, you’ll know. Now,” she said, adjusting her scarf, “I really must be going.”

Frank gave a confused half-wave as she bustled off. The sun had dipped below the horizon as he shuffled down the emptying city street. 

Who was coming? Why was he waiting for her?

On the one hand, Frank Doyle was simply out of faith. He could not take on faith that someone was coming for him, as he had no more faith to give to anyone. But he had seen too much of the world to discount Madam Z’s words. After all, she’d never been wrong before. But she also wasn’t always right. 

On his walk home, Frank stopped to look at some fireworks set off in the harbor. It was a humid night, and most of what he could see was the smoke: the ghosts of the fireworks, skeletons, shells, vaporized bones. But it was still pretty, and he was aware that somewhere there was the light.

That could be enough for now.


	6. You’ll Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trust me. You'll know.

No patron of this fine establishment would guess for a moment he didn’t belong right where he was: Frank’s demeanor projected the easy confidence of a man in his element. His suit was well-appointed and appropriate for the early summer weather, his pocket square matched, and his hair was expertly coiffed. 

Speaking of quaffing, the martini in his hand was finer than he expected. Although it was customary for Frank to have a drink after (and before, and during) fulfilling his contractual duties, which today included capably dispatching a mid-size hellbeast with tentacles for a mouth, his post-conflict martinis were not usually so succulent. Perhaps PJ had found it in his heart to take a class or two on tending bar. Frank said as much. 

It turned out a dame deserved the credit for the martini, and she might be in need of his help. PJ explained that she had been accompanying known conman Bobo Brubaker to a phoney seance in an actually-haunted house.

“I'd better go over there, just in case,” Frank said, and threw back the rest of his truly remarkable martini.

Frank knew The Willowbrook House well. In his year as part time contract spook-spooker to the highest society, he had become well-versed the literal skeletons hiding in the closets of the oldest and stateliest homes. While he didn’t exactly enjoy that this knowledge, it did keep him in the latest fashions. If only the company were not quite so consistently tiresome. 

People are so seldom worth staring death in the face for.

Frank entered the Willowbrook House with only the slightest of trepidation. The monster is there, to be sure, but there. There.  _ There.  _

There she is.

Everything that had happened before meeting Ms. Sadie Parker felt like a prelude. 

Later he would learn that not only was Sadie Parker inarguably perfect, she was loaded (in every sense of the word). What’s more, she would encourage him to retire from his life as a supernatural hit man, even though, for her, he would gladly meet the eyes of death. Once Frank had the option of a more idle life -- one filled with their favorite activities: drinking and each other, well. He need never be a fighter again, only a lover, over and over, every day, forever. Only a fool would do anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout out to Beyond Belief Issue #0 for the basic plot of this chapter.


	7. Epilogue

Though it had been years since his last fight, Frank kept up relatively well with the  _ extremely  _ underground fight club scene. After all, PJ could still be found in attendance several nights a month, and Mendels’s niece (who was taking on her uncle’s spiritual duties rather well) would sometimes bring Frank a scrawny kid with fire in their eyes and revenge in their heart. Frank would pour them a drink (from the bottle Mendels’s niece had sent along with them -- he wasn’t running a charity, after all) and give them a refresher on the old Doyle one-two. 

These days, though, and it make Frank’s heart light whenever he realized, he could go weeks without so much as considering his odds against a water demon.

The ring was certainly the last thing on Frank’s mind as he strolled into the auction house for his usual Saturday auction. In fact, he was concentrating so hard on his strategy for bidding for a full case of a rare bourbon from Old Rip Van Winkle Distillery, (“Often known as ‘unicorn tears’ to industry insiders, this whisky is among the rarest available on the market,” Frank read, reaching down to give the auction house’s dog’s ears a quick pat), he would have missed the conversation entirely had the man not flagged him over.

“Sir, sir! Here, we need an outside opinion on this,” a man said. He sat at a table with a companion, poring over what looked to be sheets of statistics. It also looked as though the man hadn’t met the business end of a hair brush for a few weeks. His companion, equally greasy, spoke up.

“Who do you think would win in a fight,” the greasier of the two said, “Swamp Thing or the Creature from the Black Lagoon? I say the Creature, hands down, but Rick over there says the Swamp Thing would win due to superior gill placement.”

“I’m telling you, Marty, the gills are the weakest link for both of them, and Swamp Thing’s are just naturally better defended.”

“Wait, hold on,” Frank cut in. “You called me over here, interrupting my trip to the bar, to ask me who would win a supernatural, bare knuckle, no holds barred brawl?”

“Well,” the first man said, sounding a little offended. “No. We just want to know who you think who would win.”

“Look, man. We know it’s silly to argue about things that will never happen, but we think it’s fun.”

“Ah, no, that’s where you’re wrong,” Frank said.

“You don’t think it’s fun?”

“Correct, but that was not exactly what I meant. I instead was objecting to the caveat that these things will never happen,” Frank said.

“Huh?” The second greasy fellow seemed genuinely confused.

“I can tell you definitively who won that particular match. Swamp Thing, nine rounds, Skid Row, May ninth, last year. Defensively superior gills had nothing to do with the final outcome. Now. Do you have any further questions for me? I am only asking to appear polite, mind you, as you might note that I am already walking away and will not give you a chance to ask any further questions.”

Frank walked back and began to pet the auction house pup in earnest. Despite his best efforts, he could begin to hear the chants of a crowd in the distance, and felt his fists clench up. His breath came faster now, as he could almost hear Red Wolf telling him to  _ get his head in the game. _ He could smell the pungent mix of sulfur and sweat that permeated every crack of the dim basements he’d fought so hard to leave behind.

“Oh, Frank,” Sadie said, sidling up to the pair. He looked up at her, and his vision cleared. “I would be sorry to be late, but I see you found someone to keep you company. It appears I was not missed.”

“Sadie, love, whenever you are not by my side, it is safe to assume I am missing you. Even when I am joined by such a winsome creature as this canine, your absence makes my heart grow heavier.”

“I believe the expression is ‘fonder,’ dear.”

“Is it? Well. That doesn’t make any sense. The only time my fondness for you has an inverse relationship to your distance from me is when you have left to get me a drink.”

“Oh, my darling man, what a capital idea!” All thoughts of fighting were pushed to the back of Frank's mind as they lifted their glasses in a…

_**~CLINK~** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](http://thesouthern.com/news/local/pinch-penny-liquors-auctioning-off-rare-bourbons/article_0a268aa4-b49c-533f-b01c-f62ad93fbc49.html) is an amazing story about "unicorn tears" bourbon for auction. 
> 
> Also, I would like to heap thanks upon all the folks who helped me along the way, but none more than [secretsofluftnarp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/luftie/pseuds/secretsofluftnarp). This was originally their idea, and here we are, months later, with a beautiful friendship and a pretty decent story to show for it. It literally wouldn't exist without you.


End file.
